


i've held many things in my hands, and have lost them all

by mm8



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Sultry in September 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8040343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm8/pseuds/mm8
Summary: Everyone had the name of their soulmate somewhere on his skin. Bard was rather unfortunate that his mate was not of the race of men.





	i've held many things in my hands, and have lost them all

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monkiainen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkiainen/gifts).



Since the beginning of the First Age, the people of Middle Earth, no matter their race or gender, were born with a name tattooed on their skin. The name could be anywhere on them. Bard had a childhood friend who boasted that their mark was on their behind. Everyone made fun of her and jested, until the day the girl pulled down her skirt and showed her mark to them all. The mark informed each person the identity of their soulmate, the one fate had thought suited them the best. Soulmarks were written in the mate's hand, an easier way to find out if they had the right person. It was all very _romantic_ ; all teens day-dreamed about the day they would meet their _one_.

As far back as Bard could remember, he had always been looked at as different. It probably started the day he was born, but of course, Bard couldn't remember that. Everyone gave him pitiful glances, or gave him a wide berth as he made his way down the streets. One time, when he was very young, a woman spit in his face after calling him a heathen. 

That was the day his mother took action and covered up his mark.

 _"It's not you honey, it's_ them _. People don't like things that they don't understand. It's for your own safety."_

At first, Bard thought it was weird wearing fingerless gloves all the time. His mother had made them especially for him. Even though his soulmark was only on the back of his left hand, his mother thought it was better to cover up both. He didn't get as many glares or insults as he did before. Perhaps people thought he was ashamed of the name on his hand. He wasn't. Far from it. So what if his soulmate was an elf? The only thing that bothered Bard was that he didn't know a single word in Elvish (any of the dialects), so he literally had no lead on who his soulmate was. 

By the time he was a grown man, everyone had forgotten that he had an odd soulmark. It was for the better. Elves didn't pass through Laketown, and Bard had no business to travel to Mirkwood or Rivendell to search for his mate. He had accepted long, long ago, that he would be one of the many who never found their soulmate.

______________________________

The King of Mirkwood kept _staring_ at him. It unnerved Bard. Ever since he met the king when he came to the ruined Laketown to offer aid, the Elf couldn't keep his eyes off Bard. For the life of him, the bowman couldn't figure out why. Was it out of pity because of what just happened to his home? Did he know that Lord Girion was his ancestor? He had been told there was a striking resemblance between them. When he saw a sketch of Lord Girion when he was a teenager, he didn't have any more doubts. It was very possible that King Thranduil knew Girion. After all, Elves were practically immortal; who knew how long the king had been alive.

He wondered absentmindedly if the king had ever met his soulmate. He hadn't seen a mark visible. Bard was aware that he had a son; the heir to the Forest Elves kingdom. He knew that he had been married once, long before even Bard's father had been born. That didn't mean anything though. A lot of people didn't marry their soulmate. Bard was one of the them. 

He'd met his Ellinore when her small hut had flooded and everyone in the neighborhood helped her out. She had been charming, with sarcastic humor. Ellie played the fiddle better than anyone he'd ever met. The name marked on the bottom of her left foot was Thornburn VI. His wife was rather unfortunate. Apparently, her mark had always been faded to a faint grey, meaning that her match was already deceased. It didn't affect their relationship at all. Secretly, Bard hoped that when she died, she was greeted in the afterlife by her soulmate. 

Bard cast a glance at the king once more. King Thranduil was speaking directly to the hobbit in front of them, but his stormy grey eyes were locked on Bard's. 

He had to admit that elf was very handsome. Slender frame, piercing grey eyes, and commanding presence. King Thranduil was a sight to behold.

He shivered, as his soulmark caused him discomfort; it felt like it was on fire. That had never happened in all of his life.

______________________________

He attended the public funeral of Thorin and his two nephews. As far as he understood, there had been a private viewing for the remaining members of their company earlier in the day. After this, all three were to be buried and 'go back to the stone' as dwarves said.

It wasn't like any other funeral he had been to. There were no eulogies, no antidotes of the deceased. Just… silence.

Bard had been standing alone in a corner, away from the rest of the mourners. The mountain was cold, so dark that it was difficult to see even with the hundreds of candles surrounding the bodies. Bard was fine where he was. He had never liked funerals and seeing the bloated corpses. He didn't like the poor attempt at dressing them up so they looked lifelike, even though they weren't.

It broke his heart a little, to see the members of the company still grieving, still silently weeping. He felt the worst for the hobbit. If Bard was correct, and he sure he was, the hobbit had been Thorin's soulmate. He could have sworn he saw a faded mark in dwarven letting on one of his ankles.

Bard glanced up in surprise when someone clapped his shoulder. It was the king of the woodland elves. It seemed as though the king wasn't phased at all about the event. They gazed in each others eyes for a long moment. It seemed as though King Thranduil was staring into his soul, trying to get a good read on him. Bard was paying attention to the elf's pale eyes. They were slightly dilated; why, Bard wasn't sure. The low flames of the candlelight 

His soulmark ached.

Bard blinked and wiped his stinging eyes. This lack of sunlight was bothering him. He gestured to the entrance as started walking to it. Thranduil followed a couple paces behind.

Out on the ruins of the battlements, Bard couldn't help but breathe in the fresh air. It was autumn. Slightly cold with a hint of a breeze in the air. He could see the orange leaves gliding towards the ground near Dale.

Dale. God he was in charge of all of people from Laketown now. It still was bizarre that they had rallied and wanted _him_ to lead. After all the shit they had put him through in his childhood, after all of the criticism he received for not remarrying after his wife died, after blaming him for his ancestor's mistakes. After all of that, everyone elected for him to be their new leader… to be their _king_. 

He wanted to be a good king. One that was worthy of the trust they had placed on him. The kind of loyalty that the dwarves had for their king, even in death.

"You don't seem phased by any of this," Bard began as Thranduil made his way to his side. He took a good look at the elf. He was dressed elegantly, like he always was. Thranduil wore a simple crown, a long silver tunic with matching robe. His trousers and boots were a shade darker than the rest of his clothing. His hair was flying in the light breeze. Thranduil was holding his wrist in a death grip. Odd. Maybe the king had injured his wrist during the battle. 

"I've seen a lot of death in my time. It's nothing new."

Bard raised and lowered both of his eyebrows, but said nothing. 

They stood together near the edge of the battlements in silence. Bard scratched at his chest with his left hand, as if somehow that would ease the burn of his soulmark. "How can you get used to it so easily? All of the feelings that death enviably bring up? The pain and the heartbreak and… the guilt of living? Just… how?"

"I focus on the here and now. The living are far more important than the deceased. I put my grief aside until it was an occasional thought in the back of my mind. I can't waste my days mourning the loss of one."

"King--"

"Thranduil. I keep telling you. It's just Thranduil."

Bard bit his lip, he could already feel anger building in his chest. " _Thranduil_ , how can you say such a thing? Are you saying that you aren't affected by this? What happened a few days ago? You lost a big chunk of your own army. That doesn't bother you?"

"It did when it happened. Now the moment has passed, I am fine. You're a _king_ now, Bard. You'll have to learn to accept losses."

"What about your _wife_?" Bard found that saying that word was more difficult to say than it should have been. He wasn't jealous of Thranduil's deceased was he? It was absurd. Still, Bard didn't want to even think of Thranduil being with someone else. "Are you saying that her death means nothing to you?"

Thranduil glared at him rather coldly. "Of course, it means something to me. Sinnafain was beautiful, intelligent, witty, the mother of my only child. But she died hundreds of years ago. I can't go through every single day moping about only thinking of her. Life has to go on. Surely, you have done the same about your wife, or else I daresay, you would be a pile of ashes in Laketown, because you would have been too preoccupied mourning to even stand up and run like some sort of coward!"

"What the hell?!" Bard fumed. "How dare you!"

"It's true though, isn't it?"

Bard was _angry_. He was sure that his face must have been turning a deep shade of red. Of course he was still grieving for Ellinore! It didn't matter if she wasn't his soulmate. He had cared about her and spend a large portion of his life being by her side. Thranduil wasn't right, he just wasn't.

Bard turned on his heels, fully intending to stomp away like an angry teenager, but his coat snagged on a jagged piece of rock and propelled him backwards. He didn't realize that there wasn't solid ground underneath him until it was far too late. Bard screamed, which quickly turned into a mousy squeak. His face was buried in the elf's chest; Thranduil was holding him close and rocking ever so slightly. The king was speaking in hushed tones and in his native tongue so Bard had no idea what he was saying.

"Thranduil, Thranduil, calm down. I'm alright. Please--" 

Thranduil released his hold on him. Bard was about to say something, but the elf pulled up the sleeve to his robe, extending his pale wrist out to him.

There it was. In Bard's messy, comically large scrawl. His name. His _name_ on _Thranduil_.

Immediately, Bard took off his left glove, something he'd never done in public before, and showed his hand to Thranduil.

The elf cursed, pinning Bard to the ground. Both were breathing heavily. He couldn't believe it. After all of these years, after decades of giving up hope that he'd ever meet them… Here they were. Brought together through an awful situation. 

Thranduil smiled, and turned his head to the side. A small giggle bubbled out of the serious elf. It was infectious and soon enough, Bard was laying there, giggling right along with him. They spurred each other on until they were laughing heartily.

"We shouldn't be laughing," Bard gasped out between laughs. "It's a funeral, and we were talking about our wives, and--"

"Don't care." Thranduil leaned down and captured Bard's lips. Bard chuckled into the kiss. 

For the first time in a _long time_ , he was truly happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are amazing and I will never stop asking for them, but getting comments, actual feedback from readers means so much. Taking five seconds out of your time can really make my day.


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